


Take My Heart in Sweet Surrender

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Smut, absence makes the heart grow fonder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2019-11-27 10:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18193451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: When you've been apart longer than you've been together…Book universe.





	Take My Heart in Sweet Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my immersion in book universe. Any typos or mistakes are mine. (Actually written in early July, 2012.)
> 
> Title comes from a Perry Como song, "Till the End of Time," from 1945.

You've missed him so very much.

He takes your hand in his, offers a hesitant smile, almost as if to say that he's as much in disbelief that you want him back as much as he wants you back. His other hand comes up to frame your face in his hand and quite of their own accord your eyes well with tears of happiness. To console you, he bends, kisses your now-dampened cheek with tenderness before turning his lips to yours for a loving, lingering, yet chaste peck.

He has missed you too.

You raise your hand, run your fingers over his shoulder, over the cotton of his shirt, to touch his cheek. You can just feel the slight bristle of a day's worth of growth under the pads of your fingers, the slight tensing of his jaw as you draw a line over his skin. He meets your eyes with his. You're glad to be home and to have him there with you.

When you kiss again there is no chasteness to it. It is desperate; it is passionate; it is suffused with longing, hinting at the mourning of many lost weeks without each other and the joy of a second chance. Your arms come up around his neck; your fingers comb through the short hair at the nape. He shivers and redoubles his efforts to leave you absolutely breathless.

His own hands come down your back, to your waist, to slide down and over your backside. It is, in its own way, the first reminder of how eagerly he has always been to have you, particularly when his fingers find the curve and press quite insistently before coming up to your waist again.

He murmurs something into your ear. Without thought you say yes. Whatever it is he wants, you are willing to give it to him.

He takes your hand once more and you walk with him back to your room. You swear he chuckles. The room is, as usual, in a state of disarray, with clothing strewn on the chair by your bedside, a precarious stack of books on the bureau, an ashtray heaped with fag ends, and your bed itself is a pile of linens, pillows and the duvet caught up in an unending spiral. You suspect it will suffice, because from behind you he lifts the bottom edge of your shirt and pulls it up and over your head. So too goes your bra, the tricky clasp easier to undo when he's not wrangling with it around your body. He slips it off and together they are added to the pile on the chair. 

You turn to face him, feeling almost shy, and you tease that he's still wearing too much as you reach for the buttons on his shirt. He takes over and you're amazed that buttons can be undone that quickly. You are forced to settle for opening his belt buckle, working at the trouser button and fly. Naughtily you slip your fingers through the opening, and you hear him make a sound you can only describe as anticipatory.

He strips off his shirt, trousers, socks and boxers, taking a moment to fold each in turn with startling precision for the rapidity with which he does it. You giggle a little as you send your skirt down to the floor, making no effort to pick it up.

With you standing there only in your pants, he forgets quickly about the skirt on the floor. He scoops you up in his arms and covers your mouth with his, hands sliding down over your bottom again, this time between the lacy fabric and your skin. Somehow this is sexier, more wanton than simply running hands over bare skin—which is what you are doing to his own bottom—and you moan a little. As he kisses you again, as he presses you against him, it becomes impossible to deny that yes, he wants you very much.

You step back and pull him by the hip to join you on the bed. It's not much of a struggle to convince him. The moment you are side by side on the bed he turns to you, eager to kiss you again, and not satisfied to constrain his kiss to your mouth alone.

He swirls his tongue down along your throat; you lift your chin to better receive this affection. Gently he bites your shoulder before attentively covering your nipple with his lips. You shiver and shudder a little as his teeth graze over the hard tip, arching your hips up towards him, reaching for him, skimming your fingers along his hip and down his abdomen to give him a little attention of your own.

He grunts your name as you touch him, stroke the length of him, deliver open-mouthed kisses on his neck, biting a little, sucking a little. You have dearly missed the sounds he makes when you torture him in this way. You grasp and tug a little harder. He groans then turns so that you're beneath him. 

His eyes are fierce and full of desire as his hand draws your legs apart, then drives upward to the heat there. It's your turn to moan and gasp as he strokes you in time with pressing himself against your thigh. After a few eternal moments you open your heavy lids, reach for his hand to push it aside, then reach for him. You could hardly be more direct in what you want.

He complies, shifting slightly, then thrusting forward and into you. You cry out with pleasure; for the first time in a very long time you feel whole, well and complete. He then thrusts again, then again, and you keep rhythm with him to satisfy yourself as well as him. He's quivering as he moves; you think it can't be long until he comes—or until you do, with as long as you've been separated. You fall further into the bliss of ecstasy, hardly aware of your own breathing; the only thing that matters in that moment _is_ that moment.

And then it happens, that rapidly blooming zing of sensation that heralds your culmination before the waves overtake you. When they do you cry out, holding tight to him as he continues moving; his own moans escalate until he tenses up like a primed bow. With a final groan and one last drive forward he comes, and with that release, he collapses to the bed, struggling to regain his breath, his weight pleasantly heavy on you as he deluges you with tender kisses.

As the utter peace in the serenity of the afterglow washes over you, as you return those kisses, he tells you he never wants to be apart from you again.

"Not even to use the loo?" you tease.

"You know what I mean," he murmurs.

_The end._


End file.
